Shot in the Dark
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: In response to a Canteen post - Napoleon and Illya celebrate Thanksgiving their own way Warnings - suggested slash, language, alcohol, whipped cream, pumpkin pie and American Football


"If I eat anything else, I'm going to die." Napoleon didn't even bother to raise his head from his couch where he was sprawled. He undid his belt and the button to his waist band and sighed rubbing his stomach.

"You didn't have to have the third piece of pie." Illya was also on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a smile of remembrance.

"I was trying to keep up with you." Napoleon lifted his head just enough to scowl at his partner.

Illya just grinned back and toed off his shoes. "There's a fool's errand for you - sending a boy to do a man's job." He stretched and glanced over at Napoleon's big color TV. There was something erroneously called a football game on it. It didn't look like any football game he'd ever seen before coming to America. This version was too clean and way too safe. Back in England they played it without padding and with a lot more intent. "Mrs. Waverly was very generous."

"She loves you, you know. The first year, she was just being nice inviting you, but now I think she waits all year just for you to show up for Thanksgiving. She certainly goes all out. I think she'd divorce the Old Man if he even threatened to not invite you."

"She likes you as well, Napoleon. She told me you were like the son she never had." Still, Illya's mind was wandering back to his days at university. While he didn't have any real reason to celebrate the English holidays, the consulate and his fellow countrymen did make sure they held a proper week long Russian celebration for New Year's. It was one of the few times during the year he actually felt like he got enough to eat. Of when he didn't have to make the decision between a meal and a new textbook. And there was something else… he just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Then you must be the vacuum cleaner she never had…" Napoleon gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder and Illya moved with it, flopping over onto the sofa. That gave him a direct view of Napoleon's liquor cabinet. And that niggled his brain again, a half-forgotten memory.

"Napoleon, how well stocked is your liquor cabinet?"

"Well enough, why?" His partner was now interested.

"I was just remembering. Back in England, we had this tradition and I was just wondering…"

"And it involves alcohol?"

"All good traditions do. Or should." Illya managed to hoist himself off the couch and walk to the cupboard that acted as Napoleon's storage cabinet. It was easier to sit than bend over. He wouldn't admit under threat of death that his own pants were feeling a little tight in the waist. He poked around until he found a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream and some amaretto liquor.

"What are you doing?" Napoleon was watching him intently, but still not inclined to move from his lounging position.

"Remembering…" Illya carried the bottles over to the coffee table and plunked them down by Napoleon's feet. He then headed to the kitchen, to return a minute later with a can of whipped cream and two shot glasses.

"Okay, intrigued now." Napoleon had sat up and was opening the bottles. "What do I do?"

"Quarter ounce of the Irish cream and half an ounce of the amaretto." Illya waited for Napoleon to measure the liquor into the glasses and then spritzed the tops of both glasses with the whipped cream.

"That was for the pie," Napoleon protested.

"Trust me; this is an equitable use for whipped cream, even this poorly processed substitute." Illya held up a finger. "Now this is the trick. Hands behind your back and drink it."

"How can you do that if you can't pick it up?" Napoleon was entering into the spirit of the adventure.

"Like this." Illya knelt down in front of the coffee table and bent over the glass. He opened his mouth, placing it around the entire rim of the glass and tipped it back, swallowing the contents with one gulp and set the glass back down.

"And the purpose for this?"

"Well, I'd be lying if I said it was for honorable intentions, especially with their name."

"And this name would be?"

"Blow job shots." Illya shut his eyes as the liquor hit his stomach with a pleasantly warm explosion. "You usually did it to get someone drunk… for the usual reasons." He gestured Napoleon forward.

"I see. Never let it be said a Solo lacks courage and a certain disregard of propriety" Napoleon regarded the glass for a long moment and then replicated Illya's moves, coughing as the alcohol burned a path down his throat. "Jesus…" He coughed more and Illya thumped him upon the back

"Sorry, should have warned you. You shouldn't try to swallow and breathe at the same time. " Illya repeated the procedure. "It's better the second time."

"Remind me why were are doing these?"

"It beat the hell out of your idea of football and it seems like a good idea."

"And what is the record set in this little escapade?"

"A colleague of mine drank fourteen of them once. He then needed his stomach pumped. They said the only thing that saved him was years of vodka abuse. I would recommend not trying to top his record."

Illya leaned down to his glass and dipped the tip of his tongue in the whipped cream, glancing up through his eyelashes to see if Napoleon was watching. Assured of his partner's rapt attention, he lapped the whipped cream delicately, like a cat lapping milk, then slipped his mouth slowly around the glass rim. He tilted his head back quickly and swallowed, aware of Napoleon's eyes watching his Adams Apple bob up and down. He removed the glass from his mouth and smiled slightly at his partner. "Your turn…"

****

Napoleon cracked open an eye and moaned softly. His head was threatened to secede from the rest of him and his stomach rolled unpleasantly. It took him a full minute to remember Illya's little drinking game. He remembered laughing… a lot and something else. But what?

He stretched out an arm and hit something… someone? He glanced over at the mound beside him and frowned. Who? Well, Illya, obviously, too drunk to go home spent the night. But why here and not the guest room or the couch? That didn't make any sense. They must have been very drunk.

It took two attempts to sit up, but he managed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stopped. _What in the name of God was he doing naked in bed with his partner?_

Something made him raise the bedcovers and glance beneath, dropping them when his investigation revealed Illya in a similar state of undress.

"Think, Napoleon, think," he ordered himself.

"Can you do it quietly? My head would appreciate it." Illya's voice was muffled by his pillow. "_Bozhe moi_, now I remember why I stopped doing that."

"Illya, I'm trying very hard to remain calm for the moment, but I do have a couple of questions. Why are we in bed together naked?"

"So, you're not only a happy drunk, but a forgetful one as well." Illya rolled over and smiled sleepily at him. That should teach him to try and drink the Russian under the table. "Give yourself some time and it will 'come' to you." Napoleon's eyes widened at the emphasis and at the marks that graced the Russian's neck, marks that hadn't been there the day before. Marks that looked unsettling like…

Illya pulled the blanket back up around his neck, grinning at Napoleon's half-strangled groan. In spite of the pounding of his head and some tenderness in his extreme lower back, this hangover had been well worth driving his partner insane.


End file.
